7. Shifting Allegiances

CHAPTER 7

SHIFTING ALLEGIANCES

Rocco paced nervously through the opulent living room of the Rossetti penthouse, his designer shoes clicking against the marble floor. Today was the day—his first major negotiation as the heir to the Rossetti empire.

Victor leaned against the wall, his muscular arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes tracked Rocco's every movement, a mixture of concern and pride in their stormy depths.

"You need to calm down, little prince," Victor rumbled, his deep voice sending shivers down Rocco's spine. "You've got this."

Rocco paused his pacing, running a hand through his carefully styled hair. "Do I?" he asked, hating how small and uncertain his voice sounded. "What if I fuck it up? What if I embarrass the family?"

In two long strides, Victor closed the distance between them. His large hands came to rest on Rocco's shoulders, steadying him.

"Look at me," Victor commanded softly.

Rocco lifted his gaze, meeting Victor's intense stare. The older man's thumbs stroked soothing circles on Rocco's collarbone, the touch both comforting and electrifying.

"You are Rocco fucking Rossetti," Victor said, his voice low and fierce. "You were born for this. And I'll be right there beside you, every step of the way."

Warmth bloomed in Rocco's chest at the words. He leaned into Victor's touch, drawing strength from the older man's unwavering support.

"Promise?" Rocco whispered, hating how needy he sounded but unable to help himself.

Victor's eyes softened, a rare smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "Promise, baby boy. Now let's go show those fuckers what you're made of."

The drive to the meeting location was tense, the air in the car thick with anticipation. Rocco's leg bounced nervously, his fingers fidgeting with the cuffs of his expertly tailored suit.

Victor's hand came to rest on Rocco's thigh, the heat of his palm searing through the expensive fabric. "Relax," he murmured, giving Rocco's leg a gentle squeeze. "Remember what we practiced. You've got this."

Rocco nodded, taking a deep breath to steady himself. He could do this. He had to.

The abandoned warehouse loomed before them, its weathered exterior belying the high-stakes meeting about to take place inside. As they stepped out of the car, Victor's hand came to rest on the small of Rocco's back, a subtle show of support and possession.

"Ready?" Victor asked, his voice low and intense.

Rocco squared his shoulders, channeling every ounce of Rossetti confidence he could muster. "Ready as I'll ever be."

They entered the warehouse, the dim lighting and musty air a stark contrast to the opulence Rocco was used to. Several men in expensive suits were already gathered around a makeshift table, their expressions guarded and calculating.

Rocco recognized most of them—representatives from allied families, each with their own agenda. But one face stood out, a newcomer with sharp features and cold, assessing eyes.

Marco Bianchi. The rising star of a rival family, known for his cunning and ruthless ambition.

As Rocco and Victor approached the table, Marco's gaze locked onto Rocco, a predatory smile spreading across his face.

"Well, well," Marco drawled, his voice dripping with false charm. "If it isn't the Rossetti prince himself. How kind of you to grace us with your presence."

Rocco bristled at the condescension in Marco's tone, but Victor's steadying presence at his back kept him grounded.

"Gentleman," Rocco said, addressing the room at large. "Shall we begin?"

For the next hour, Rocco navigated the treacherous waters of mafia politics with a skill that surprised even himself. He fielded questions, made counteroffers, and held his ground against men twice his age and experience.

Through it all, Victor was a constant presence at his side, offering subtle guidance with a touch or a whispered word. Rocco drew strength from the older man's unwavering support, finding reserves of confidence he didn't know he possessed.

But as the negotiations reached their climax, Marco Bianchi made his move.

"I hate to be the bearer of bad news," Marco said, his voice dripping with false sympathy, "but it seems the Rossetti family may not be in a position to make good on their promises."

Rocco's blood ran cold. "What are you talking about?"

Marco's smile was shark-like as he slid a folder across the table. "It appears your father's illness has taken a turn for the worse. Word on the street is, he doesn't have long left. And with such an... inexperienced heir waiting in the wings, well. One has to wonder about the stability of the Rossetti empire."

Murmurs of concern rippled through the gathered men. Rocco's mind raced, panic threatening to overwhelm him. How did Marco know about his father's condition? And more importantly, how could he salvage this disaster?

He felt Victor tense beside him, the older man's body coiled like a spring ready to snap. But before Victor could intervene, Rocco found his voice.

"Gentlemen," he said, forcing his tone to remain steady and authoritative. "I assure you, the Rossetti family's position is as strong as ever. My father's health is a private matter, but I can guarantee that our business dealings will not be affected."

Marco's eyes narrowed, clearly not expecting such a composed response. "Bold words from such a young man," he sneered. "But can you back them up?"

Rocco's mind raced, searching for a way to regain control of the situation. Then, like a bolt of lightning, inspiration struck.

"As a matter of fact," Rocco said, a slow smile spreading across his face, "I can. Victor, if you would?"

Victor raised an eyebrow, but reached into his jacket to retrieve a slim file. Rocco took it, his fingers brushing Victor's in a touch that sent sparks skittering across his skin.

"What I'm about to show you is highly confidential," Rocco said, addressing the room at large. "But in light of Mr. Bianchi's concerns, I think it's necessary to lay all our cards on the table."

He opened the file, revealing a series of documents detailing a massive expansion of Rossetti operations. It was a risky move, showing their hand like this, but Rocco knew it was their only chance to salvage the deal.

As the other men pored over the documents, expressions of surprise and grudging respect dawning on their faces, Rocco caught Marco's eye. The older man's fa?ade had cracked, a flicker of uncertainty crossing his features.

"As you can see," Rocco said, his voice gaining confidence with each word, "the Rossetti family is not only stable but thriving. My father has prepared me well for this role, and I intend to lead our organization into a new era of prosperity and power."

He leaned forward, fixing Marco with a steely gaze. "So, Mr. Bianchi. Do you have any other concerns you'd like to address?"

Marco's jaw clenched, but he shook his head. "No," he ground out. "I believe you've made your point... quite effectively."

The rest of the meeting passed in a blur of handshakes and signed agreements. As the last of the men filed out, Rocco sagged against the table, the adrenaline rush fading and leaving him shaky in its wake.

"Holy shit," he breathed, running a trembling hand through his hair. "Did that really just happen?"

Victor's strong arms wrapped around him from behind, pulling Rocco flush against his solid chest. "It did," he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of Rocco's ear. "You were fucking incredible, baby boy."

Rocco shivered at the praise, warmth blooming in his chest. He turned in Victor's embrace, tilting his head up to meet the older man's intense gaze.

"I couldn't have done it without you," Rocco said softly. "Thank you for believing in me."

Victor's eyes darkened, one hand coming up to cup Rocco's jaw. "Always," he growled, before claiming Rocco's mouth in a searing kiss.

Rocco melted into it, all the tension and fear of the day dissolving under the heat of Victor's touch. He pressed closer, desperate for more contact, more of Victor's intoxicating strength and warmth.

Victor's hands slid down to grip Rocco's hips, lifting him effortlessly onto the table. Rocco wrapped his legs around Victor's waist, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened.

"Fuck," Victor growled, breaking away to trail biting kisses down Rocco's neck. "Do you have any idea how hot you were in there? Taking charge like that?"

Rocco gasped, his head falling back to give Victor better access. "Yeah?" he breathed, a smirk playing at his lips. "Maybe I should negotiate more often if this is the result."

Victor's grip tightened, just shy of painful. "Careful, little prince," he warned, voice low and dangerous. "Don't start something you can't finish."

Heat pooled in Rocco's belly at the threat. He rolled his hips, grinding against the hard line of Victor's cock. "Who says I can't finish it?"

With a growl, Victor captured Rocco's mouth in another bruising kiss. His hands made quick work of Rocco's belt, yanking it free with a sharp tug.

"Hands behind your back," Victor commanded, his voice brooking no argument.

Rocco complied, a thrill of excitement racing down his spine as Victor used the belt to bind his wrists. The leather was cool against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat building between them.

"Such a good boy for me," Victor purred, his large hands roaming Rocco's body possessively. "So obedient when you want to be."

Rocco whimpered, arching into Victor's touch. "Please," he gasped, beyond pride or pretense. "Need you, Daddy."

Victor's eyes darkened at the title, hunger and something deeper flashing in their depths. "Patience, baby," he murmured, fingers working at Rocco's fly. "Daddy's going to take care of you."

Just as Victor's hand wrapped around Rocco's aching cock, a sharp knock at the door shattered the heated moment.

"Boss?" One of Victor's men called through the wood. "We've got a situation. Marco Bianchi was spotted meeting with the Rizzo family after he left here."

Victor cursed, frustration evident in the tense line of his shoulders. He pressed his forehead to Rocco's, both of them panting heavily.

"Duty calls," Rocco said, trying to keep the disappointment from his voice.

Victor growled, clearly torn between desire and responsibility. With a heavy sigh, he stepped back, quickly freeing Rocco's hands and helping him straighten his clothes.

"This isn't over," Victor promised, voice low and intense. "We'll finish what we started later."

As they made their way out of the warehouse, the reality of the situation began to sink in. Rocco's mind raced, trying to process the implications of Marco's meeting with the Rizzos.

"What do you think it means?" Rocco asked as they slid into the waiting car.

Victor's jaw clenched, his expression grim. "Nothing good," he said. "The Rizzos have been pushing for more territory. If they've aligned with Bianchi..."

He trailed off, but Rocco could fill in the blanks. A war was brewing, and the Rossetti family was caught in the crosshairs.

As the car wound its way through the city streets, doubt began to creep in. Sure, Rocco had handled the negotiation well, but this was a whole new level of danger. Was he really cut out for this life? Could he really lead his family through the storm that was coming?

Victor must have sensed his unease. His hand came to rest on Rocco's thigh, a comforting weight.

"Hey," he said softly, drawing Rocco's attention. "You did good in there today. Really good. Whatever's coming, we'll face it together. Okay?"

Rocco nodded, trying to draw strength from Victor's unwavering confidence. But as they pulled up to the Rossetti compound, he couldn't shake the gnawing feeling in his gut.

The game had changed, the stakes higher than ever before. And Rocco wasn't sure he was ready for what came next.